[farfromwhore]

ᝰ. clem's blog! welcome to the freak show! ٠࣪⭑ clementine • she • nineteen && counting / mdni - nsfw + dark content ahead. 🕸️

was @soraphicdeactivated

@tooobsessivelyobsessed - personal use 𝗙𝗔𝗡 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟𝗦 𝗥𝗨𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗧! number 1 spider-man enthusiast. bkg's wife.

⤷ rules. masterlist. about me.

@farfromwhore 2k26 please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works on other platforms: i do not tolerate them at all.

[farfromwhore]

hey!! no worries if it’s a no, I was just wondering bc I love your writing- are you going to ever reupload ur old fics?

i honestly didn't realise this was something people wanted, but if that would make u happy then yes absolutely!

though there definitely are a few that deserve to be left in the past/rewritten lol

[farfromwhore]

big kisses and hugs for you, i’m so sorry that happened! i know what your going through, it does get better over time 💜💜 Take your time with everything and heal yourself 💜

-🥪

thank you so much x

[farfromwhore]

hello people! thank you so much for all the love on my fic, i could smooch u all :> unfortunately i've just been cheated on and am currently in the process of moving out of my bfs and back to my mum's house (ouch) so for now let's say the fic is being put onto a short hiatus! i'm hoping i can find the will to write again sometime soon but as i've spoken about before i mostly get a lot of my inspiration for writing through my (now ex) long-term bf. i don't want to give anyone false hope but i also really don't want to abandon this fic as i truly have so many great ideas i want to get out, it's just hard to find the time to write right now between everything.

thank you for being so patient, i love every single one of u x

[farfromwhore]

i promise i am working on the new chapter guys i haven't abandoned the fic!!! this one's taking a little longer since ive been so busy and i want to hopefully fit a lot into one chapter so i dont keep u guys waiting

pls don't kill me

[farfromwhore]

izuku is the type of guy to beg. like i'm talking on his knees, hands roaming your body like he doesn't know where to squeeze first, straight up begging for just a tiny little taste of your pussy like it's the last thing keeping him alive.

he'd let u be soooooo mean abt it too. like straddling him just to keep pushing him back by his chest each time he tries to sit up to kiss you, big delicious scarred hands pawing at your hips as he whines "baby pleaaaaase" with an adorable little pout.

u only do it because when you finally cave it's always the best sex you've had in weeks. he's such a tease, doing u exactly how u did him except 10x worse every single time. thick cock halting at its deepest just to smile down at you, run his palm over your stomach and press.

"look so beautiful, baby."

"move, izuku."

"nuh-uh. where was that when i was the desperate one?"

"izu."

he gives in because he loves u. and because he's just as heated as u are, leaning down on his forearms to press his nose to your cheek and straight up moan into your skin, muttering profanities and declarations of his love as he ruts into you like a fucking animal.

"love you so much."

"all mine. so perfect."

"could never want anybody else."

he's just absolutely devious and i love him

[farfromwhore]

Hello! I don’t want to overstep any boundaries, and you don’t have to respond if it comes across that way, but I was just curious if you still write for Neteyam? I came from your other blog and just wanted to tell you I really enjoy your writing, especially your Neteyam fics!

thank you so much, and no this is absolutely not overstepping pls don't worry!

i probably will at some point as i enjoy writing for him, but i tend to write for things when i feel them. so for example, when the next avatar comes out its highly likely i'll start writing for neteyam again but as of rn im on a mha rewatch so i'm in the depths of the bakugo trenches.

it's really just whatever interests me at that point in time and i tend to fixate on things really intensely but it's generally pretty fleeting so who knows when the next neteyam obsession will come

[farfromwhore]

how many times do we think bakugo listened to throw away when izuku refused to join his agency

[farfromwhore]

it's so hot that literally all i can think abt is a sweaty grumpy bkg. shirtless, loose fitting basketball shorts that he's (definitely) free balling in. slouched back on the couch in front of the shitty little fan u keep in the attic that he's making a mental note of replacing for u. ur apartment doesn't have air con like his does, but he chooses to suffer through the heat anyways bcos he'd rather be melting here with you in your home than anywhere else

[farfromwhore]

when you finally convince bakugo to smoke with you, you almost think he's joking.

it must be at least the millionth time you've begged, glossy lips pouted for him in that faded, old hoodie of his you love. he's been at your place for the last four nights now, leaving you with a chaste kiss over the collar of his hero suit and a "later, baby." in the early morning and returning with a bag full of groceries to cook dinner for the two of you in the evenings. you know he's avoiding returning to his lonely, sky rise apartment in favour of your cosy one bedroom, but you don't say anything about it.

you typically take a night or two off when he stays over, for his sake, but by night four he's agreed to sit beside you while you roll up against the couch, which is massive in itself.

so when you stand up to make your way to the fire escape, again for his sake, and he stops you with a huge palm against your thigh, you can't help but tease him; "katsuki bakugo, are you finally giving in?"

even like this you're fucking angelic. wet hair, no makeup, legs just prickly enough to tickle his fingertips as they run over the backs of your thighs, urging you to sit back down. It's the only reason he watches you spin the paper in your fingers with a look that reads as mildly curious, ruby eyes rounded with quiet affection for the girl— his girl— in front of him.

"only cause I'm gonna need it to put up with you." his usual gruff voice is somehow softer here, with you in your apartment. it lacks its usual bite, like he's able to let his guard down here, where no one else can find him.

he tries to be cocky when he inhales, nearly dies of a coughing fit and you only smile at him; "easy, big boy. not all pro-heroes have incredible lungs."

he argues between coughs, "I fuckin' do." cough, "number one, baby."

you roll your eyes, taking another drag to hide the way your lips curl in amusement. "you're not number one yet."

"but I will be." is all he says, self assured and a dopey grin across his face as he leans into you, nose buried in the traces of citrine shampoo across your scalp.

the first thing you notice, high kats is a clingy kats.

It's criminal how in love with you he is. borderline torturous. because close is already never close enough with you, and this? this only amplifies that.

except now, he's so fucking high that his body moves before he realises. reaches for you in ways he'd typically shy away from for fear of being too sappy. but no, high katsuki doesn't fucking care. all he needs wants is to nuzzle his nose along the column of your throat, low, red eyes blinking up at you when you giggle and pull away; "tickles." you mutter, so calm and sweet and he thinks he'd die happy here, in your arms, forever.

It bleeds into the way he can't help but giggle along with you. It's quiet, boyish laughter, the kind that's almost foreign coming from such an absolute tank of a man like him but it makes your chest squeeze impossibly tight and your eyes threaten to water with the tenderness they hold for him.

he runs his nose along your jaw, smile still evident in his voice, "does this tickle?"

you nod, two hands on his shoulders, and rest your head back against the couch.

"what about this?" his voice is a low murmur against your skin, soft kisses placed against the wet patch your hair leaves against your cheek.

he's so sweet and mushy. so tender and for the first time since he can remember it doesn't make him afraid. for the first time in his life he feels safe and it's so stupid cause he's this big shot, fearless hero and you're the only thing that makes him stop pretending. the only place he goes for comfort outside of his own head and when you smile it's like his whole fucking body lights up.

"not so much." you can't help but be honest when the weed clouds you, but it doesn't stop the way your laughter spills out and he's tipping up his head with an open toothed smile, messy hair and flushed cheeks.

"you laughin' at me?" but his voice holds absolutely no bite like this, just breathless laughter and you shake your head despite the fact you're chewing your lip to hide a smile.

"no. would never laugh at you, baby."

he scoffs, "yeah right. little menace." crawling up your body just to pepper your face in overwhelming kisses like a punishment, hand slipping up your sweatshirt just to feel the warmth of your breath behind your ribs and wishing he could slip inside there.

[farfromwhore]

CHAPTER 4: FAILURE TO COMPLY

bakugo's only moving further down the ranks and pressure from the agency is only growing, can you remain true to yourself whilst staying good at your job?

genre: bkdk x reader, nsfw, slowburn, enemies to lovers (bkg), friends to lovers (izu), publicist!reader, teacher!izu, pro-hero!bkg, LOVE TRIANGLE

warnings for this chapter: description of the villain attack at the beginning, mentions of injury

a/n: ok i know i said the others were short but this one is like 5k words at a push THEY WILL GET LONGER I PINKY PROMISE THIS IS A FILLER CHAPTER AND ITS IMPORTANT TO THE STORY u have to just trust in my divine creativity

series masterlist

Everything aches. You try to breathe, but smoke clouds your lungs. It stings your eyes, worms its way through all your arteries. You've been here a thousand times before and yet all you can think about is fresh air, pushing open the fire safety doors and stumbling onto the concrete. It scrapes your knees, cuts straight through your jeans, but it's not enough.

Everything's hot. Too hot. Your whole body's covered in a thick layer of sweat and it's suffocating. You want to rip off your own skin and hang it out to dry, your legs want to run but you don't move. Another explosion, more powerful than the last. It shakes the ground beneath your fingers, sends you further into the floor.

"Mommy? Mom! Where are you!"

You look up. It's the kid from downstairs, the one that's always marking the floors with chalk. You can see how the dust clings to his clothes from here, little hands trembling around the plastic pot like a lifeline. Your body moves before you think, forcing yourself to your feet. You dodge the rubble without thinking, shaky knees carrying you at speeds you didn't think were possible.

One of his chubby hands clings to your sleeve before you even take hold of him, shoving his snotty face into your chest. He's shaking more than you, stuffy nose fighting to take a full breath. You cradle him, scanning the smoke for something. Anything.

He pulls back, big eyes looking up at you like you have all the answers, "Is the villain still here?"

"It's okay. The heroes are here." Is all you can muster, eyes running over his blue, chalk stained fingers. "They're going to keep us safe."

He nods, burying his face back into your shirt. Something opens up the smoke a little farther in front of you, enough to see a herd of civilians crowding a fire exit leading from a different building. One much more engulfed in flames than yours. You decide it's your best shot, taking hold of his hand in yours while you crouch until your eye level with him, "We have to move from here. It's not safe. We're going to join those people over there, okay? Can you do that?"

He looks unsure, tears still streaming his puffy cheeks, eyes darting between you and the crowd.

"If we move over there, we can help the heroes fight the villain by giving them more space. We can be heroes, too."

He thinks, pouty bottom lip pulled between his teeth. "Okay." is all he says, grip tightening on your fingers.

Another explosion racks the floor as you move. You try to ignore it, push forward until you're inches from the crowd. A woman cries out, stepping forward from the herd— "Oh! My son!" — voice thick with tears as she drags the boy into her arms, falling to her knees with him in her hold. You join a group of men, janitors from the building, still coughing up tar as you follow their eye-line to the blackened sky above.

"Is that Dynamight?"

Another spray of explosions, more erratic than the last.

"What is he doing?"

"The villains getting away!"

Through the fog, you see a streak of orange fly through the sky, followed by red and white. Explosions fly from his palms without aim, uncontrolled in how he throws himself into each building, turning each one to dust in his path. Something disgusting twists in your gut at the sight, watching him be restrained by a blast of ice from the hand of another hero. Shoto.

This can't be right. He's a hero, a good one. He's supposed to keep you safe.

"Maybe he's trying to stall him!"

"He wouldn't be so reckless without reason!"

You can't hear his screams clearly from here. Just the raw, clawing sound of his vocal cords tearing. The balcony of one of the wealthier buildings across from you hangs by a thread, brick cracking and pipes groaning. It's stopped by a blast of frost before it hits the ground, cold air solidifying in mid air to form some kind of pillar that keeps it suspended. A couple of the people around you cry for Shoto, others remain fixated on Dynamight. Rabid in his anger, blasting through shards of ice in a charge toward the fog like it means something.

"He must be heading back toward the villain!"

You think you can hear Shoto above the wailing, through the smoke and the sirens, but nothing falls into place. The hero growls, something akin to a scream, charging into the smoke without aim. He passes through within moments, palm headed straight toward the same building. It sparks and jitters, the foundation begging to hold on until it succumbs to the crumble. The crowd screams, your feet carry you backward without thought. You narrowly miss the landslide. Others get caught in the downpour, scraped legs and broken bones just barely making it out alive.

Consciousness creeps in between gaps and blurs. Sirens fade into the blare of alarm clocks and smoke clouds turn into crisp morning dew from the open window by your bed. You take your first breath of fresh air, sit up and shake out your sore limbs, pop another Advil and hope for the best. It doesn't stop the nightmares, but it makes the hangover bearable.

The office is loud today.

It's always loud, but you're sure everyone's decided to take their phone calls at max volume just to irritate you this morning. You rub at sore temples as you round the corridor, shirt untucked and blouse uncharacteristically loose as you try to keep hold of the binder lodged between your bicep and torso. Loose papers, more event invites you need to sign off, a weekly report of what media coverage Dynamight's gained through the week. You're hoping— with the proper amount of cramming— you can have it done by lunchtime, which leaves you the afternoon to catch up on your novel and slip into those blissful few hours undisturbed before meeting Midoriya for dinner.

You're one second away from pressing your badge into the keypad of— now decidedly— your office door when a scratchy voice barks your name. You almost jump out of your skin at how rough it is, like gravel tearing from his throat. You don't let it get to you, at least not as much as it really does, turning on your heel with a clipped and abnormally exasperated tone, "Yes, Dynamight?"

He's leaning against the door way, this time clad in skin tight spandex that really shouldn't highlight his chest the way it does. His arms are crossed over his body, the scars that litter them dancing in the fluorescent light and his mask is pushed high on his forehead, holding his hair back from his eyes. He looks almost as bored as usual, but he scans you like he's actually taking notice for the first time.

"Jesus christ, you get any sleep last night?"

Your blood boils, though it comes out in a sharp exhale through your nose and a mean curl of your lip. "Did you need something, or can I get on with my work?"

"I thought your work was helping me." he counters, a lazy grin pulling across his lips. He's fucking enjoying this.

"My work is to help your public image, not be your personal assistant."

"Good, 'cause that's what I need you for." is all he says, turning around to saunter into his office, leaving the door wide open for you to step inside. You hate that you do it.

You don't bother trying to stop the comment before it leaves your mouth as you close the door behind you, noticing the way his heavy boots leave less of a drag along the carpet this time, "You're chirpy this morning. Is it because you're plotting my demise?"

He scoffs, "You think I'd let you in on it if that was my plan?" he turns and rests against the edge of his desk, leaving you standing in the centre of the room with the folder against your lap.

"I 'dunno, you don't really come off as much of a planner." you mock him right to his face, but he doesn't give his usual bite. His eyes slowly roam your body like he's assessing you for something, before turning to grab a stack of papers beside him with a click of his teeth.

"Media insights."

"The polls are out." you mutter, almost to yourself, but he nods with something close to impressed.

"I'm down 3 more ranks than I was when you started."

You pout, "It's hard not being prom king."

He ignores your jab, but you can see the way his jaw clenches. "Company wants me to work with you more closely from now on, thinks it'll help bring me back up." he holds out the front page to you, which you begrudgingly take, skimming the text.

"These are only half of the votes. What about the others?" you look up, brows furrowed.

"What you think they're all negative?" he spits, back to his usual roughness before catching himself like he's remembering why he called you in here and schooling his expression. "They want you to assess these ones, just the people who voted against me. Figure out how I can appease the fuckers until I'm back in the top 5." he explains, and you read back over the paper more carefully this time.

"Most of these were submitted right after that interview you had the day of the subway attack. Some people even went back to change their votes."

The day you and Bakugo had nearly been at each others throats in this very office, he had been called out to cover Shoto's patrol. A villain attacked a moving train under the subway, which he managed to stop with zero casualties and minimal damage, but had rudely refused any interviews by telling reporters to 'Go fuck themselves' while aiding civilians in exiting the underground. It hasn't helped his case.

"You saw that?" he mutters, and if you didn't know better you'd think he's a little embarrassed.

"It's my job." you deadpan, pulling the paper from your face.

His face hardens, voice jumping an octave back to its usual half-yell, "So what? Can you fix it or not?"

You laugh— disbelieving— "Can I fix it? Why don't you try taking some accountability!"

He stands to his full height, towering over you and you're completely dwarfed by him like this. Big torso even bigger in his tight suit and the remnants of black liner still smudged around his narrow eyes. "Accountability?"

"Well, it's not anyone else's fault you're only getting further away from number 1." you scoff, crossing your arms.

"What's that supposed to be mean?" he grits, and you notice how petulant he sounds like this. Whiny, irritable like a child being proved wrong. It sparks an even more insatiable need to do so in you.

"It means that if you want me to help you— you have to be willing to accept it!"

He stops. Nostrils flaring, chest heaving, but he says nothing. Not for a moment, until he resumes his seat against the desk with nothing but a harsh grind of his teeth. "So what do you want me to do?"

You're baffled. Completely and totally baffled. He just wielded to you, with even less fight than anticipated. Had corporate really dug into him that hard? Was he at risk of losing his job? Is it all in your hands? You should feel guilty at how much that thought excites you.

You try to hide your bewilderment, chewing your lips as you huff, "Okay. Well, for starters, try not swearing at every reporter that tries to speak to you."

He grunts, disinterested. "They're idiots shoving a camera in my face just trying to get the next big headline, they don't give a shit about what it actually takes to do what I do."

You ignore the spout of ego, "You could at least humour them."

He tenses, before giving in. "Fine. What else."

You're even more shocked he's willing to hear more. Fuck, you should have planned this. You stutter a little before finding your footing, standing straight and trying to seem more sure of yourself than you are— "I need control of your social media. You haven't posted since your debut and even that was just a photo of your name on a leaderboard."

"Done." he answers immediately.

"Charity events."

"No fuckin' way."

You scoff, "You really have that much of a detest for showing up for the needy?"

"It's not showing up for the needy, it's showing up for the money-hungry corporate fucks that just want to profit off my face so they can afford more fuckin' galas instead of actually doing what they're supposed to." he argues, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are practically white. You can almost appreciate the dedication to restraint.

Still, he has a point. You hadn't thought of it that way, and despite the obnoxious attitude it kind of makes sense when he says it like that. But you won't give in that easy, not when this is the first opening you've had since starting here.

"I'll do whatever the fuck else you want, parade me around like some show dog, but I won't be some pawn in their fuckin' game."

He's so serious, that same glassy look in his eye that he'd had when you made that jab at him and you find that in all the time you've seen his face you've never seen him peel back a layer like this. You think about how reckless he had been that day, how desperate he seemed.

"I didn't know you saw it like that." you mumble, a little more ashamed than you'd dare to admit. You have to try to make this work.

He grunts, "You didn't fuckin' ask."

"You're not exactly an open book."

"Yeah, well you're not one yourself." There's a beat of silence, of shattered nervous systems desperate to regulate and smoke charred lungs fighting for a steady breath. He's the first to break it, standing from his seated position and rounding the desk. "I'll get someone to send over the passwords, they'll be in your email by lunchtime."

You nod, suddenly a little stuffy in this huge office. "Okay." You try to study it more closely this time to combat the awkward way you're standing, eyes landing on a small, glass bowl against the centre of the desk. Was it there before?You try to remember seeing it, but nothing comes to mind. It's comical, the way the spotless glass twinkles like it's never had a spot of sugar touch its rim in years.

He looks up just to scowl at you, "What?"

You shake your head, "Only you would have an empty candy bowl in the middle of your desk."

His eyes follow yours like he's noticing it himself for the first time, readjusting in his seat with a grunt, "I don't eat sweets."

"Right, 'cause you hate happiness." you joke, clearly tickled by your own comment.

"Get out of my office." he snaps, but it's not intimidating nor is it spiteful. It's gentle, at least for him. Smooth, less clawing when it rolls off his tongue and you wonder if he's always been capable of sounding like that or if he's just worn from the strength it took to agree with you.

Still, you obey, even daring to smile on your way out— "Have a good morning, Bakugo."

He exhales through his nose. The first time you've called him anything other than Dynamight.

"Yeah, you too."

[email protected]

subject: CONFIDENTIAL! Dynamight's passwords

You scroll through the various log ins. Instagram, tiktok, spotlight. All under his official email, with the same company password and a couple of numbers thrown in with little to no correlation. You wonder how no one's managed to hack into this yet, though you suspect Dynamight isn't exactly the number one target considering he's yet to even make a post on most platforms.

Just a blank account, no profile picture, no bio. Nothing identifiable apart from the username and the verification tick, and some liked posts of fellow heroes dating back years.

You log into instagram first, shocked by the inflood of dm requests that ping across the screen before you silence the notification button. The feed is reasonably empty too, no personal accounts of any friends or family, just heroes similar to himself trying to promote themselves with brand deals and cinematic shots mid patrol of them helping the elderly or saving civilians in full costume with a warm smile on their face. You try to imagine Bakugo saving people with anything but a scowl, laughing to yourself at the thought.

You start by giving him a bio.

professional hero 💥 | U.A graduate

Sleek. Likeable. In your opinion, a little humorous. The perfect fit and easily recognisable by the algorithm. At least he'll finally have a social media presence upon search now.

Next, a profile picture, which proves infinitely more difficult. You settle for an old photo, one framed in his office of him just after his debut. Dirt caked face, busted lips, eye mask pulled over his forehead the same way it had been this morning. He's recognisably younger, if not by the lack of scars than the half-smile gracing his lips. He's pretty like this, before the world dug their claws into him and turned into what he is now. You stare for longer than needed, pulled away when an email dips into the top of your screen.

You follow it with your mouse, expanding it to full screen, skimming the text with furrowed brows. A confirmation for a charity donation. This isn't yours, in fact it's not even your work email. It's Bakugo's. Logging into his socials must have incidentally logged you into his email, which you're sure is against company policy for you to be looking at. It isn't registered under his email, but a common placeholder name instead. It must be another invite faking donation confirmations to try to get him to attend, especially since knowing the man's distaste for charity. You're going to log out and scrub it from the computer— really you are— until a name across the top of the screen catches your eye.

DONATIONS FOR AOTO TANAKA (VICTIM OF RECENT VILLAIN ATTACK ON NEIGHBOURHOOD)

Your eyes scroll down to the photo right below, double clicking to enlarge it. Puffy cheeks, wide eyes and blue, chalk-stained hands. The boy from the apartment below you. The one whose hand you held. You quickly read the description, sighing in relief when you notice he hasn't been injured, simply displaced with his mother upon loosing their homes. You scroll the donations next, the odd ¥10,000 from names you vaguely recognise. Other residents from nearby buildings, ones that weren't completely lost to the damage and had repairs funded by the hero institute.

Then, most recently, a ¥1,073,000 donation under the same placeholder name the emails addressed to.

You click back, scrolling through each email addressed to that name in Bakugo's inbox. Hundreds upon thousands of charity donations, all for a considerably large sum of money under the same name, all landing in Bakugo's email. Guilt sinks low in your stomach.

For years, Bakugo's been donating to various organisations and private gofundme's under a fake name, and now he's been donating even larger amounts to victims of the attack on your neighbourhood for weeks. He doesn't want his name to be used by large corporations to exploit these organisations, which is why he does it all under a fake name. If people knew about this, chances are he'd be considerably higher in the ranks than he is now, and yet he doesn't use it to boost public opinion of himself like any other hero would.

You sit still for a long time before logging out of the email. When you do, you go back to amping his social media with more determination than ever before.

tags (forgive me if i've forgotten any!): @hauntedbyink @tvkvi @fries-pls @vaebear

[farfromwhore]

CHAPTER 3: IS IT A DATE?

friends can take each-other out for food, right?

genre: bkdk x reader, nsfw, slowburn, enemies to lovers (bkg), friends to lovers (izu), publicist!reader, teacher!izu, pro-hero!bkg, LOVE TRIANGLE

warnings for this chapter: drinking, suuuuper brief mention of war, umm i think that's it sorry if i missed anything!

a/n: sorry this is so bad. i found this chapter really difficult to write as im not used to writing for izuku. i hope i did my sweet boy at least a little justice🫩

series masterlist

Prodding and pulling at your fibre coated lashes, you take a step back to get a full view of yourself in the mirror. You look incredible; soft, bouncy hair falling over your shoulders in waves, skin tight outfit hugging your chest just enough for your carmine flushed skin to catch the light. You brush a couple strands off your neck just to rub the glow potion you'd lathered over yourself further in, sniffing under your newly painted nails to ensure the sweet smelling vanilla hadn't curdled in the time spent working on your face.

Was this too much for dinner between friends? You frown, looking over your bare legs in your denim skirt and how your shins disappear into your long, black boots. You wonder if Izuku decided to dress up, or whether you'd finally get to see him in something other than that navy, pin stripe suit.

You snatch your purse with a deep breath, shoving a few essentials into the coin scented leather in an attempt to calm your nerves. This is ridiculous. You're just going to get some food, grab a couple drinks and listen to good music. You've been to enough bars to know the dress code, and if a skirt and boots is too much then social norms be damned because you look fucking good.

You're mid way huffing over the buckles of your shoes when a knock at the door has your head shooting up from your awkward one legged crouch against the nearest wall.

"Coming!" You yell, probably louder than needed, and scurry toward the door.

He's staring at his phone when you pull it open, mumbling your apartment number to himself as he scans the screen, reaffirming he's at the right place. It gives you a brief couple of seconds to take him in. Wild hair tamed down to something somewhat formal, you can tell he's used some kind of curl cream by the way each strand falls in little ringlets over his eyes. His skin looks more polished than normal, like he's even put in the effort to moisturise and you're relieved to know it's not only your cheeks radiating light right now.

"Hi." He murmurs, transfixed by the dark ring around your eyes. You've smudged some liner in your waterline and it has to be the most captivating thing he's seen since All Might.

You lean into the doorframe, suddenly a little chilly from the breeze flowing in from the corridor, "Hey."

He swallows, finally coming to, "Are you ready to go?"

"Oh!" You laugh, the real hearty kind, and he's relieved you're not as nervous as he is right now. "I was just trying to do up my buckles," you poke out your leg, waving your ankle in front of him, "they're trickier than I remembered."

He stares for a second, fingertips already reaching out like it's second nature, "I can help." Is all he says before he's walking you back into your apartment, barely taking in the change of scenery before you're sitting on your bed and he's kneeling in front of you.

You smile at how sure of himself he is, swinging your legs a little as he studies the metal clasp like he's forming a plan of action on how to tackle this. "This is very heroic of you, Midoriya Sensei. Are you sure you're gonna be able to handle such a high level threat outside of the classroom?"

"I'm grateful you're willing to let me help." he mutters, big hands grasping your ankle to still it's swinging, "You're typically quite stubborn."

"Yeah, well this time I need a big strong man to come and help me."

He looks up at you, a small grin tugging at his lips and green eyes twinkling, "You think I'm big and strong?"

You snort, shoving at his shoulder, "I can see your head growing already."

He leans a little closer, breath tickling your bare legs as he carefully threads the leather through the buckle. "You look very pretty, by the way." It's flippant, a comment in passing, like he'd forgotten to mention it upon arrival, but it still burns deep in your tummy and you fight off the urge to squirm in his hold.

"You're not too bad yourself." You mumble, suddenly much quieter. It's true, though. He ditched the suit in favour of something more casual: dark blue jeans and a sage knit sweater that hugs his thick arms just right, highlighting the way they bulge with each move of his wrist as he wrestles with your shoes. He's still wearing the same beat up sneakers, though you can tell he's used something to shine them before stepping out and they don't seem as vibrant today.

The last buckle clips, but he doesn't rise immediately. His scarred fingers run over the worn leather like he's committing it to memory, looking up at you with a surprisingly cool grin compared to how he walked through the door, like just the feel of your ankle through the material is enough to calm him. Just the fact you're front of him.

He wipes his sweaty hands on his thighs as he stands, extending one to you and helping you up. Something suddenly embarrassed flushes across his face and he has to study the carmine shade of your nails in the dim yellow light to stay present — "You're okay with walking, right? We can uber if not—"

"You don't drive?" It's not judgemental, just genuine curiosity and the mildly amused look on your face seems to cool him off, at least a little.

"No." He exhales, shoulders dropping. "Otherwise I'd be your personal chauffeur, of course."— a pretty decent save.

You shrug, already passing him to make your way to the door, grabbing your bag on the way through. "I trust you with buckling my shoes, but driving? I think I'll stick to the limo."

"Limo?" He jogs a little to catch up, racing to help you grab your coat off the rack.

You roll your eyes, "Comes with the job."

He helps you slip one of your arms in, "And the fancy apartment?"

"You didn't see the lack of decor?" You snort, and his eyes run over the empty picture frames like he's only just noticing how bleak it all is.

He shrugs as he lets you step out into the cool air first, waiting patiently while you lock up. "You make the place feel full of life regardless." You shoot him a look that wants to be sarcastic, but a smile manages to peek its way through.

"I think my boss hand picked this place just to suck it out. He wants me depressed, I'm more pliant to his bullshit that way."

"I don't think that's true." He shakes his head, allowing you to take the side closest to the railing despite the fact you don't reach for it, "Though four flights of stairs does feel a little intentional."

"I know, right?" You gasp, "At first I thought the guy showing me around wasn't going to make it up the first two."

He laughs, "No elevator in a place like this must be some sort of hate crime."

"Definitely designed with 'eat the rich' in mind."

He sighs, playful, "A shame us working class scum have fallen victim to the movement."

"Should we get branded t-shirts just so everyone else knows we're poor?"

"You think your boss would like that?" He shoots you a lop-sided grin, but it does little to help the way that suppressed anger you've been so good at hiding still bubbles at the mention.

You briefly remember the look on his face at the jab you had made. The guilt, the shake in his limbs, the way he had looked at you like you'd spat pure venom. You had almost felt bad upon leaving. Indeed, it was low blow, but what's lower than losing your home, no, your whole life at the hands of someone who's supposed to protect you? Let alone someone that believes they're above charity work just for being a celebrity.

"You okay?" Izuku frowns, pulling you out of your trance. You must have been out of it for a little while because you're nearing the bottom flight of stairs when he flaps his hand in front of your face.

You look up, forcing a smile. His frown deepens, "I feel like I lost you for a second there. Are you sure you're alright? We don't have to go if you're not feeling well—"

You grip his wrists, "No! It's fine, Izu. Really, I want to go. I'm okay." you give him a reassuring squeeze, but he remains visibly unsure, concern pulling the edges of those forest green eyes.

"You don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not, honestly." you sigh, "It's just the situation with my boss. I don't want to keep banging on, we should just go." you drag him down the last couple of steps, shouldering open the door to the complex and pulling him into the crisp night. The fresh air immediately pulls a smile to your face, the same one he's able to recognise from the night he met you— genuine and carefree, probably able to light up a funeral— "It's going to be fun, I can feel it." you affirm in that chatty tone you slip into whenever you're excited about something and it's enough to melt him, tense hands relaxing into yours as he lets you walk him up the street.

"Do you even know where you're going?" He laughs, and you shake your head.

"I figured you'd tell me if I was wrong."

The hum and buzz of a cheap, charity rack market never gets old. It's all things home rolled into one beating heart of city, tucked away from everything else in secret like only those worthy might find it. It's spend all your change and circle the squares until your heels hurt. It's this is why we're here. It's what catches your eye as you pass a particularly quiet road into the city on the way to the place Izuku booked for the two of you.

Now, twenty minutes later, you're a little behind schedule. Caught up in the crowd, grazing over tablecloths stacked with jewellery and 20% off racks filled with vintage dresses and flowy skirts that flap in the cool, late night breeze. Tourists dance around you, a hand folded paper bag cuts into a red line across your wrist, Izuku floats alongside like he's simply down for the ride, not one complaint passing his lips in the whole time spent here.

"Isn't this the best detour you've ever had?" you joke, running the tips of your fingers over a beaded headscarf laid across an assortment of hats. You look up to give the lady behind the table a smile before going back to your looking, Midoriya hums in reply.

He sneaks up beside you, joining in running a thumb over the beading, "Are you going to buy it?"

You think for a moment, "No. It's not really speaking to me."

"Speaking to you?"

"Yeah, you know when things just kind of. . .call to you. Like, 'take me home, I was made for you'" You turn to face him, visibly confused that he's questioning this.

He looks down at the scarf between his fingers, shoulders slumped like a small child left out of a playground game. It looks familiar on his face, etched into the freckled skin and for a moment you don't see the strong man in front of you— you just see him. "I don't think I've ever had that."

You grip his hand over the cloth with a melodramatic gasp, "Well now we have to find something for you!" You make a sharp turn, scanning each booth for something eye catching, something that screams red sneakers and awkward charm, something that screams Izuku.

He spins with you, dragged to each new stall like he's physically chained to you. "I don't think we're gonna find anything like that here."

"Have some hope. You're supposed to be the optimist, remember?"

You spend at least an hour modelling for one another— berets, trench coats, sparkly scarves, purses— each one more eccentric and colourful than the last. He's surprisingly good at this, unafraid to make a fool of yourselves with each new trinket and weird bit of cloth you pass him, draping it over his shoulders and turning to strike you a couple of poses while you purse your lips, "Hm, not this. Let's keep looking."

It's not until you're nearing the very end of the path, giggling to one another over paper bowls of rice and beef that was just too sinful to resist upon smelling the food truck parked right outside the market, that you see it.

"Izu!" you gasp like you've seen a ufo, shoving your bowl into his hands and skipping toward the foldable plastic table like you've struck gold. "Look at it! It's perfect!" You turn, fuzzy charm cradled between your fingers and present it to him, all while making movie esque sound effects to showcase how otherworldly it is. It's so stupid, some furry alien looking thing with a plastic face and jagged teeth. It's like something out of the dark crystal, some weird collectors thing that he's sure costs more than it's worth, but you're so happy about it, so he smiles anyway.

"A bag charm?" He muses. You scoff, coming further to clip it over one of his belt loops. He tries to ignore how the ends of your hair tickle his forearms, how you mindlessly brush it behind your ear to keep it out of your eyes. He can see how excited you are. It rubs off on him like a plague and he decides now that, no matter how ridiculous he looks, he's going to pretend to love it just to keep that smile on your face.

"It's so you. You have to get it."

He looks down, running his fingers along the creatures matted fur. "It's so ugly." He turns it over, running a thumb along the big glass eyes. Green, just like his. "I love it."

You throw your arms up, pumping them up and down and bouncing from one foot to the other in celebration— "Yes! We'll take it!" You turn to the man behind the stall, practically throwing the cash at him from your purse and thanking him. Izuku does too, before you're gushing over his waistband and reminding him of your reservation while you walk.

You don't think you've ever been awe of a restaurant before.

It's nothing huge, a single swinging oak door fitted with a fog glass window— just big enough to see the stream of bodies inside. Warm, yellow light pours from the diagonal shards in the glass, casting the street outside in a hearty glow. It beckons you closer, lights up like a treasure chest. The music is just loud enough to spill out of the cracks in the foundation— Nina Simone's voice like a heartbeat running through the concrete, beating in time with every foot and heel against the sticky floors.

The door swings open, a couple not much older than you stumbles onto the pavement. They laugh and joke, entirely engrossed with one another as they make their way out onto the long road. Street lamps blink around you, pushing you further into the light of the window, drawing you to it.

"Is it okay? We can go somewhere else if not—" Izuku's nervous chuckle comes from somewhere behind you.

"No." you breathe— something cinnamon and spiced flows from the open door— "It's perfect."

He smiles, chubby cheeks pulling up to rest beside his eyes. "Alright." He rests his back against the steadily closing door, holding it open for you to step inside.

Your boots feel lighter in here, like gravity's loosing its grip. Almost every table is full to the brim— white tablecloths, half eaten pizzas and empty bottles of wine, old friends and foes conversing over sourdough bread and melted butter.

"I um— I booked a table, but if you'd rather sit closer to the bar—"

"Yes." you answer without thinking, eyes glued to the band in front of the barstools. You quickly remember yourself, spinning around to face him, "Sorry, unless you want to get some food. I just thought, we've already eaten, so—"

"No, no, it's. . .whatever you want to do." He laughs, but not the usual kind. Quieter, a little breathless. You wonder if it's the nerves, or maybe the way his eyes run over your face like he's seeing it for the first time.

"Okay." you nod, "What do you want to drink?"

"Don't be silly." he shakes his head, "I'll get them, you sit down."

"Okay. Surprise me." you hum, already floating toward the woman at the centre of the stage like a magnet.

You rest against a barstool, closest to the stage, with your back to the counter. You can see Izuku over your shoulder, making happy conversation with the bar staff. It makes you smile in awe of him— how easily he charms anyone in his path, how likeable he is. Something appreciative blooms in your chest as you watch him, something dangerous enough to have you turn back toward the stage as a new song begins to play. It's more up beat than the last, and the crowd switches their tempo as soon as the trumpets begin. Two quick steps and a hop, for some even a clap. Side to side, front to back, spinning around each-other like it's all rehearsed.

You lean back into your seat and tap along to the music, swaying the same way you always do when Izuku reappears beside you with two drinks in hand.

"I asked for the best on the menu, they gave me some kind of cocktail." he explains, handing you the colourful drink.

You don't wait to take a sip, wrapping your lips around the straw. It's ice cold, but it's welcomed in the heat of this place and you in approval. "It's good."

He takes a seat beside you, swirling the clear liquid in his cup before taking a sip. You furrow your brows at him— "You're not drinking?"

He holds up his glass like he's only just acknowledging it himself, "Oh, I have work tomorrow. Probably best not to be hungover in a classroom full of children."

You snort, "You're right. Luckily, I don't have that problem."

"But you do have a boss who might chew you out for falling asleep on the job." He bumps you with his shoulder and you laugh.

You take another, long sip. "He's pretty resistant to work with me, so it'll probably be another long day of paperwork for the agency, locked away where he doesn't have to see me."

He suddenly frowns, "I— fuck, I'm sorry. I haven't asked where you work."

You wave him off, "Honestly, it's not that interesting."

"I'd still like to know." he presses, wordlessly shuffling a little closer until his knee bumps with yours, thighs resting against one another.

You sigh, a little embarrassed to admit after all your complaining. God, you hope he's not one of those obsessive fan boys. "Do you know Dynamight? The hero?"

His eyes widen, leg stiffening against yours. Shit, maybe he is.

"Dynamight? You work for his agency?" he buffers, breath stuck in his throat.

More appalled than you thought. Maybe an obsessive hater instead?

"I mean technically I work for him, but yeah, that agency." you furrow your brows at him, placing a soothing hand on his thigh, "You don't like, know him personally, do you?" you laugh, like even the idea is absurd. "I know some of the heroes do seminars every now and then at U.A, but I didn't think he would be the type to care about high-school kids getting a proper education."

Izuku doesn't answer immediately. Of course he knows him personally. Of course he knows what an ass he can be sometimes, but is it really him that's been putting you through all of this? Were you one of the people whose homes were lost in the villain attack? Is that what you meant by he 'owes you'?

"Izu?" you call out to him, suddenly shifting to something more concerned. Your hand runs a little higher up his leg, mindlessly rubbing as you lean in. He can smell your shampoo when you're this close. "Are you okay? Did I— did I say something?"

Fuck, he needs to focus. He doesn't want to lie to you, would rather die before being dishonest. But admitting he knows Kacchan? After everything you've said about him? After all he's put you through? Would you hate him for it? Lump him in as another one of those selfish, money hungry celebrities that you hate so much? He can't risk it. If he keeps himself in your good books, then maybe he can talk you out of it. Stay this perfect, guiding light. If he remains unbiased, then he can change your opinion of Kacchan. He can explain— all while pretending he knows nothing about him— what a mistake it was, that Bakugo was just trying to help, that he's a good man.

He tells himself that this isn't selfish. That this is going to help both you and his friend in the long run, that this is the right thing to do. Which is the only reason why he lies— "No. I don't know him."

The tension leaves your body immediately, laughing as you come down from it, "Oh, thank god. I started to think the two of you worked together or something."

Yeah, something like that. We just fought in a war together where I watched him die before my eyes, nothing worth noting.

He shakes his head, looking down at where his hands wring in his lap. "No. I— he takes some of the students, the ones that excel, into his agency for extra training. Kirish— Red Riot, trains them mostly. Or so they tell me, I don't really get involved in that side of their training. My classes are mostly theory based."

You nod along to his rambling, "Lucky you." you joke, trying to lighten the mood. The smile he gives you back is forced, he hopes you don't notice.

You do. It doesn't hold up for long, cracking at the edges and he's giving you that look. That pitiful, sorry look. The one that means he's burning to ask the question, the one you don't want to answer. You've had it more times than you can count since moving here, since messages from old friends and ex boyfriends and family that can't even remember your birthday. 'I'm so sorry about the accident, well done on landing the new job' like you had any part in the matter. Like you landed it through pure skill, like you even had an interview— like it wasn't some big PR move for Dynamight to save face. Like a trained hero has any room for 'accidents'.

He shifts in his seat, mouth opening like he wants to speak but can't find the right words. You find them for him— "I lived in the neighbourhood. The one he destroyed. My apartment complex was the first to be hit."

His brows curl inward, glassy eyes fluttering closed like he already knew the answer but wanted so badly to be told another. A sweet lie, or a sugar coated truth. Anything but hearing how his best-friend is the sole reason for your misery. His voice shakes when he tells you, "I'm so sorry, (Y/N)." eyes to his lap because if he sees the hurt on your face he truly believes there'd be nothing stopping him from dragging Katsuki out of his fancy penthouse right now.

You try not to think too much, because it's only a downward spiral from here and you're sure you'd end up in his arms again if you do. "It's okay." you laugh, bittersweet, "It's not like it's your fault."

I could've stopped him. "It's still awful." I should've been there. "It's not easy— losing your home like that it's—" his voice breaks, he tries to bite it back. If it weren't for me being a useless, quirkless teacher. "Fuck, it's horrible." I would have never let this happen.

You smile, a little more genuine now. "You got any more synonyms for 'shit' you wanna throw at me?"

He's shocked by your ability to find amusement in all this, through all the devastating reality you're still able to smile at him like that. Like a fucking angel. He wants to wrap you up and make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.

"I'm sorry, I know you're probably sick of hearing it." He tries to laugh with you, running a hand over the back of his neck in an attempt to hide how jittery hands have become.

"Stop apologising, Izuku, seriously." you roll your eyes and he bumps you with his knee, a playful warning.

"You want me to start acting like Dynamight?" He ignores how his heart strings pull at his own dig.

You shake your head, pure horror flashing across your painted face. "Oh god, no." He laughs this time without having to fake it. The tension dissipates from your jaw. Balance is restored in this dingy jazz bar across town. "Thanks, though." He quirks a brow, you lean forward like the answer should be obvious. "For being the first person who hasn't asked me what happened."

He gives you a meek smile, eyes dropping to his lap. It's because I already know.

A new song starts to play, one that has you sitting up with a gasp, "I love this song!"

Before he even has time to register the change in conversation, you're up and dragging him to stand in front of you, merging your way onto the dance floor like you've known the place for years. He vaguely recognises it, something by Amy Winehouse. The cover singer does a good job of making it close to the real thing, and he remembers it being the same song you had swayed to the night he pointed it out.

The dance floor is a little crowded, but you make do, wrapping your arms around his neck so you can both sway comfortably, the drink you downed having a little more of an effect than you'd dare to admit. You giggle and hum, eyes closed as you bask in the music. You're so beautiful like this, he wonders if you know. Long lashes brushing against your cheeks, rosy lips lined with something dark and enticing, smeared with shiny gloss that sparkles under the light.

You stay like this for a while, song after song. Something slow has you leaning into his chest, jacket shed against your chair long ago and hair slightly tangled down your back from all the dancing. He runs his fingers through it, picking the knots apart. You sigh into him, "Thanks for taking me out. I needed this."

"Any time." he mutters, and he means it, He really does.

"Yeah, but you have work tomorrow and you still decided to come out with me." you mumble into his shirt, words a little slurred from the drinks. He thinks it's cute.

"It's with you, so I don't mind."

You swat his chest like he's being ridiculous, but he'd drop anything for you if you needed him.

"How are you so good at making me feel better?" you sigh— genuine — and he laughs, cheek resting on the top of your head.

"I try." Ever since I met you I've felt like my only goal is to make you happy.

"Thank you for being my friend."

"If I stop saying sorry will you stop saying thank you?" he huffs. You shoot him a mean look that only has him laughing, swaying while you unconsciously lean further into him, burying your nose in his shirt.

"No. I say thank you because you deserve it, you say sorry for things that aren't your fault." You breathe into the soft cotton. Floral. You really should ask him which fabric softener he uses tomorrow.

"How about thank you for letting me take you out tonight, then?"

You snort, "I had nothing else to do."

"So you thought you'd bag a free dinner out of me?"

"Yes. Absolutely." You reach up to boop his nose, "What else are friends for?"

"You're unbelievable." He shakes his head, tucking his chin back on top of yours.

You stumble a little as you try to stand, but he keeps hold of your waist and helps you steady with two hands on his shoulders. "Alright. Home time, Midoriya Sensei. You have a class to teach tomorrow morning and these boots are really starting to hurt."

"Want me to carry you home?" He grins, but you ignore him as you make your way out of the crowd.

"And here I am paying taxes to fund the real heroes."

That doesn't stop you from letting him carry your shoes the whole way home though.

tags (forgive me if i've forgotten any!): @hauntedbyink @tvkvi @fries-pls @vaebear

[farfromwhore]

i promise chapter 3 is nearly done!!!! sorry i'm struggling so bad with writing this one but i'm trying to get it out before my busy week next week so i can start on chapter 4 asap

[farfromwhore]

i'm really struggling to write for izuku since i characterise most of the gruff big moody men i write for based on my boyfriend and i've never written for such a sweet ball of sunshine before i feel like pulling teeth

[farfromwhore]

CHAPTER 2: GREEN TINTED GLASSES

your new friend has a disgustingly positive outlook on life, perhaps it's starting to rub off on you

genre: bkdk x reader, nsfw, slowburn, enemies to lovers (bkg), friends to lovers (izu), publicist!reader, teacher!izu, pro-hero!bkg, LOVE TRIANGLE

warnings for this chapter: literally just bkg being an ass lol if u don't like that characterisation of him don't read

a/n: this one is suuuuper short lol i'm sorry i promise they will get longer! but hey at least ur being fed

series masterlist

12.05 am

Izuku: Haha lol get some sleep

7.34 am

Izuku: Morning!

Izuku: I'm just about to head into work and thought I should wish you a good day before I leave.

Izuku: Good luck & remember what we spoke about! You will do good

7.34 am

You: yes midoriya sensei🫡

7.35 am

Izuku: Lol don't call me that

You smile, switch off your phone and place it in your purse. The limo is a little cold today. You cross your legs, grateful for the long pants you decided on this morning to shield you from the chill blowing from the AC.

It's cold. It's quiet. Some cheesy pop song is flowing from the radio. Except today, you bump your heel lightly to the music, your shoulders sway and a content smile rests upon your lips. Because today is going to be different. Today is your real first day at a new job, a first day you're going to enjoy after yesterday's fluke. The first day you're living by Izuku's advice.

You're not phased by the up throw of cherry blossoms, nor the snout-faced receptionist at the front door. You find the elevator with ease, conversing politely with the young woman beside you nearly the whole way up. You take the time to check your phone when she gets off, smiling at another message from Midoriya.

Izuku: By the way, do you like jazz?

You: you can just say btw

You chuckle to yourself as you exit the elevator, readjusting your bag strap against your shoulder as your nails glide excitedly over your screen.

Izuku: What does that mean?

You: by the wajdisibejsow

Your phone nearly tumbles from your grip as you collide with something hard enough to wind you, almost spluttering for air as you nearly topple head over heels (quite literally) despite the fact you're being held upright by two beefy hands against your hips and a broad chest.

"Watch where you're goin'." A gruff, low voice spits. You know that voice.

Horror. Panic. Guilt. Determination. You go through the motions like your face can't quite figure out which way it wants to go and he's snarling down at you, mildly unimpressed, the whole time like this kind of reaction is a day to day occurrence for him. You remind yourself of Izuku's words, straightening your back and puffing your chest as you shove your phone into your bag, "Dynamight. I'm happy to have finally bumped into you, I'm—"

"A big fan. Yeah, go tell the receptionist. There's a fan mail box by the door."

Ruby red eyes barely give you the privilege of scanning your attire, as you're sure one look would tell him otherwise. Instead, they run across the elevator behind your head like he's waiting for something of interest to come along, big hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats and it's only now you realise he's not in his hero suit. Instead, he's sporting some kind of black compression shirt— sweat stained and suspiciously sweet smelling— and grey sweats that hang dangerously low on his waist like he isn't actively standing in the middle of a very prestigious office. It makes your cheeks burn with what you tell yourself is disgust for how informal his posture is.

"I'm not a fan, sir." You scoff on instinct, which you quickly curse yourself for, remembering Izuku's advice. You can't let him deter you from the task at hand.

But he's quicker. "You're not?" He asks, suddenly genuinely intrigued by what's in front of him and it's only then his eyes run over you with something that could almost be a grin. Almost.

"No—" You huff, slightly flustered, "I'm your new publicist. I wanted to discuss plans moving forward with you—"

He rolls his eyes, suddenly losing interest once more. "Just do your job and bring me up in the polls. There's no reason for us to speak."

You startle, thrown off by his response. Sure, he's a dick, but he hired you specifically with the intent of working together to up his popularity, and now he doesn't even want to speak to you? What kind of bipolar switch up is this?

Don't let him deter you. Remain on task.

"It's impossible for me to work without any communication between us. You're going to need my input surrounding every public appearance moving forward for however long it takes for the next public vote to be out."

You should give yourself a pat on the back for how professional you sound, you think. And he must think so, too, based on the way your words seem to have actually gotten to him. He thinks it over for a frustratingly long time, jaw tight and narrow gaze trained on you like he's waiting for something in you to break. Like this is a challenge. You don't give in, gaze just an unwavering, and that seems to be what eventually does him in, lip jutted out with an almost annoyed puff of air as he shoulders open the door to an office opposite the one you were sent to yesterday.

His office.

Surprisingly, he keeps his back to the door, holding it open for you in his own— 'it's pretty much protocol for me to do this' — way. You glide through, making a purposeful attempt at avoiding grazing his middle with your shoulder as you pass.

It's surprisingly spotless in his space. Each surface is practically sparkling, not one piece of clutter in sight apart from a row of frame photos along a bookcase to your left as you enter. You don't have time to run your eyes along each photo, instead finding your way to the centre of the room as he lumbers around the oak desk against the far side wall and throws himself into the seat. He watches you like he's waiting for you to sit, eyes darting down to the small black chair the opposite side of the desk and you jump, folding yourself into the chair like you don't belong there. You're sure in his eyes you don't.

He leans back in his seat, legs spread so far the toes of his shoes bump yours under the table and you fold them further inward to avoid it happening again, hands tensed in your lap.

"So, what is it we so desperately need to talk about, then?"

You clear your throat, slipping back into business mode, "Well, I think it's important we plan out an itinerary of your public appearances over the next few weeks, just to make sure we keep on top of everything." He nods, indicating he's listening despite the fact his eyes are anywhere but your face and you continue. "I've been through each of the letters you sent for me to look over yesterday, and—"

"Yeah, about that. Those aren't gonna work."

"What?" You furrow, the irritation starting to seep through.

"They're not gonna work for me." He enunciates, like you're slow. It burns something deep in your gut. He leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees and spreading his legs obnoxiously further, making his toes bump yours again under the table. "I don't do shitty charity events."

"You 'don't do' charity events?" You repeat, unable to believe what you're hearing. What sort of hero denounces charity like that? He nods, leaning back in his chair once more, though his feet remain grounded either side of yours, caging you in. You lean forward this time, a bitter laugh fighting its way out of your chest, "I'm sorry, you want me to help you make it up the ranks but you're refusing to accept showing your face for charity?"

"It's pointless."

"It gives people hope!"

"Hope isn't my job. Saving people is my job, which I'm pretty fucking good at if you couldn't tell by the way you would've gone ass over tit out there if it weren't for me." He's leaning forward again, one palm splayed across his knee and the other propped up by his elbow just so he can seethe at you over the table. He's almost. animalistic like this, baring his teeth this close to you and you can finally see why he must be so intimidating to others. This absolute hulk of a man baring down at you like he's fighting to assert some kind of dominance, and all you can do is fight to catch your breath with a heaving chest at the way he probes you.

Your eyes water before you can help it, swallowing thickly to hide the tremble, "Not so good at saving peoples' homes though, right?"

His expression falters at this. Eyes widening slightly and jaw falling open, he looks a picture of someone who's just lost a fight they were certain of winning. It's slightly jarring, the way the fight leaves his body. Shoulders dropping, fingers trembling against his knee and if you couldn't feel it fanning your face you'd be certain his breathing had stopped. He grits his teeth, like he's hanging on to last shred of strength he has and you don't know whether he's telling it to you or himself; "That wasn't my fault."

There's a knock at the door, which he seems content on ignoring, crimson eyes unmoving as they bore into you. You're the first one to collect yourself, taking a deep breath and smoothing your hands over your pant legs. He follows almost simultaneously, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair as he barks, "Come in."

An older man, probably middle aged, pokes his head around the door. The light bounces off his glasses and you recognise him as the same one from yesterday. "Dynamight, sir." He nods, and the blonde in front of you rolls his eyes, indication he's not interested in the formalities. The dark haired man races to continue, "You're needed downstairs. They've asked if you could help out on a last minute patrol as Shoto is still recovering from last week's quirk attack."

"Weak bastard." He huffs, despite rising from his seat almost instantly. "I'll be down in a minute."

The man nods, may as well bow with how low his head dips out of respect, a welcomed change to the way he had bossed you around yesterday, now grovelling at the feet of the same man you should. He's gone before Dynamight can even round the table, trudging over to some kind of glass cylinder you hadn't noticed before and pressing various buttons into a keypad. It beeps three times and opens with a hiss of air, revealing what you recognise as his winter suit strapped to some kind of floating contraption that keeps it suspended in mid air.

He presses a few more buttons and within moments the sleeves are detaching like they were never there to begin with, swapped out for his summer suit, much more suitable for the warm weather and he's turning to give you a look over his shoulder at the way you're still sitting and watching.

"You gonna sit there and watch me get changed?"

"I— no of course not!" You gargle, shooting upright and fighting to tuck in your chair. It catches against the grooves in the carpet a few times and you huff, trying to shove it under the desk until he barks at you.

"Leave it."

"Okay." You nod, surprisingly obedient through the hot embarrassment that courses through you, and dart toward the door. Your hands almost around the door knob when his deep voice rumbles again from behind you.

"You forgot your bag."

"Oh!" You squeal, twitchy legs barrelling you back toward the desk where you make a grab for your purse and throw it over your shoulder, practically sprinting past him as you make a run for the door.

"Close the door on your way out."

"Yep." You mumble, dragging it open and quickly shoving yourself between the gap, only turning to give him a curt nod, which he doesn't return, on your way out.

4.50 pm

Izuku: I'm running a little late, some kids got into a fight outside campus.

Izuku: Save me some chicken!

4.51 pm

You: no problem

You: though i can't make any promises on the chicken

You're half way through scarfing down a mouthful of sticky rice when Izuku skids to a halt beside you, wind swept and out of breath.

"Did you run here?" You ask through a mouthful of food, watching with slightly concerned eyes as he hunches over with his hands against his knees.

"Man, I really need to get back in shape." He pants, pretty much to himself, before throwing himself upright and forcing a smile at you. "I didn't wanna keep you waiting."

"You warned me that you'd be late." You extend a hand carrying the unopened box you ordered for him, which he takes gladly, joining you with his back to the wall.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I still shouldn't try and fight it."

You laugh, shaking your head. "You're such a good guy, it's kind of disgusting."

He turns to you with a scrunched nose, "Disgusting?"

"Yeah." You hum, taking another bite of your food. "It's like, not real how great you are."

He blushes a little, laughing quietly to himself, "I'm not sure about that."

"Oh, don't be so modest." You chastise, swallowing your mouthful, before looking down suddenly a little solemn and resting your box against your legs. "After the interaction I had today, you're definitely better than average."

He stops with the fork mid way to his mouth, hovering as he looks you over with gentle intrigue. "You didn't have a good day?" He frowns, like the idea genuinely upsets him.

You shake your head, "I took your advice with my boss. Except it backfired massively. He's a lost cause."

He smiles, slightly solemn, and shuffles a little closer to you on instinct. "Everyone's capable of change if they want it badly enough. You just have to try a little harder, don't give up."

You whine, throwing your head back and looking up at the setting sun, "But why should I be the one to try? Shouldn't he at least want to change?"

He folds his lips, looking thoughtful as he stares at his shoes. "I knew someone like that. For quite a few years, actually."

You look up, brows raised, "Really? How could anyone be a dick to you? You're like, adorable."

He laughs you off, shaking his head. "It wasn't because of me. In fact, it had nothing to do with me. He was fighting a battle with himself, and I kind of just became collateral for being around."

"That sucks." You frown, "Is he okay now?"

He smiles, big and genuine, at this. "He changed. A lot. Like we all do. But it's because I didn't give up on him that he felt safe to do so."

"So you're saying I shouldn't give up on my boss so that he feels safe enough to change?" You look back down at him, and he nods almost excitedly.

"Exactly." He turns back to his meal, finally taking a bite of his chicken and talking through the crunch, "I am sorry things didn't work out immediately, though. I should have given you better advice."

"No, no! It's nothing to do with your advice! Your advice was great!" You assure him with a hand against his shoulder and he seems to perk up at the contact. "I guess I kind of let my emotions get the best of me. I could have been more patient." You frown, allowing your hand to fall back against your lap, but his own hand against yours keeps you from spiralling.

"I'm sure you did as best you could. It's not easy dealing with someone like that." You smile a little at his kind words, leaning over to rest your head against his shoulder. He nuzzles his cheek against the the crown of your head on instinct and relaxes with a soft sigh, melting into the contact.

"Thanks, Izuku. I knew I'd need your wise words again."

He chuckles, careful not to be too loud this close to your ears, "Told you."

There's a beat of silence. Peaceful, cosy silence. The kind welcomed between two close friends, which you'd become over the last two 48 hours. Izuku speaks first, sitting up a little and causing your head to drop from his shoulder, looking up at him from your slouched position— "Would you let me take you to dinner? To make up for it."

You shake your head, sitting up a little more, "You don't have anything to make up for—"

"I know, but— I can't help but feel sorry that you're dealing with this everyday at work. Let me take you out to take your mind off things." He's insistent, that same determined spark in his eyes and you can't help but give in.

"Okay."

He breaks out into a toothy grin, celebratory in the way he pulls you back against his side, allowing you to rest your head on him once more. "You never told me if you like jazz."

"I do." You hum, "How did you know?"

"You were swaying a little to the music yesterday." It's a regular observation, but the act of noticing makes you smile. "I wanted to know if you'd like to go to the jazz bar downtown for our food. I thought you'd enjoy the live band."

You nod against his blazer, the material ruffling against your skin. "Mhm, sounds good."

Your eyes must be fluttering, because he leans down to brush your hair from your face with an amused smile, "Are you tired?"

"A little." You exhale, honestly, and allow them to drop closed as you snuggle into him. "This is nice, though. Maybe we can just stay like this for a while."

You can feel the glow that must be across his cheeks by the way his torso tenses, before relaxing when you press yourself impossibly closer to him, drawn in by the warmth.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

tags (forgive me if i've forgotten any!): @hauntedbyink @tvkvi @fries-pls @vaebear

[farfromwhore]

₊⊹ LOTTA LOVE TO GIVE ✶⋆.˚ — character playlists!

these are the playlists i use while writing for anyone that's interested! feel free to give me feedback on whether or not this is enjoyable, as i tend to make playlists for everything i write and would be happy to continue sharing them with you guys :)

this isn't lyric based whatsoever, just the vibes i get from the song while writing and i'll often gravitate to a certain song depending on a specific scene so pls don't read into it too deeply lol

if this is helpful for u guys while reading i'll probably continue adding to this as i go

IZUKU MIDORIYA .˚

fly - djo

distant lover - marvin gaye

champagne coast - blood orange

(we'll be) united - the intruders

surrender ('88 version) - suicide

coming up roses - harry styles

come home soon - the intruders

R.E.M - ariana grande

nasty - ariana grande

sweet - lana del rey

slow dance - clairo

steeeam - shelly

jonny - faye webster

north - clairo

cross your mind - shelly

she won't go away - faye webster

.˚ KATSUKI BAKUGOU

i'm on fire - bruce springsteen (basically his theme song hello)

my moon my man - feist

human nature - madonna

damned - miguel

hearing damage - thom yorke

i'll believe in anything - wolf parade

back of the club - kwn

worst behaviour - kwn (ft. kehlani)

knockin' on heavens door - bob dylan

routine rouge - PARTYNEXTDOOR (unreleased)

everybody here wants you - jeff buckley

master of none - beach house

i want someone badly - jeff buckley

your girl - lana del rey (unreleased)

PUBLICIST!READER .˚ ( A LOT of blood orange - sorry i'm the number 1 blood orange glazer round these parts)

you're not good enough - blood orange

everything is embarrassing - sky ferreira

bad girls - blood orange

the complete knock - blood orange

april's daydream - devonté hynes

100 - dean blunt

chinatown - wild nothing

the rot - dean blunt

losing you - solange

prom - sza

uncle ACE - blood orange

i wanna C u - blood orange

julia - sza

don't delete the kisses - wolf alice

[farfromwhore]

CHAPTER 1: THE STREETS ARE PAINTED ORANGE

you're yet to meet your new boss, except he's everywhere you look in all the worst ways. . .

genre: bkdk x reader, nsfw, slowburn, enemies to lovers (bkg), friends to lovers (izu), publicist!reader, teacher!izu, pro-hero!bkg, LOVE TRIANGLE

warnings for this chapter: none!

a/n: only izuku would say 5pm in person lol i love him. hope u guys enjoy the first chapter (ngl it's a lil rushed, i just didn't wanna keep anyone waiting🥺) and as always, not proofread

series masterlist

Travelling through the city in a fucking limo isn't something you could have ever imagined for yourself. If the windows weren't tinted you'd be ducking out of view, but of course, Dynamight needs his privacy.

Except, Dynamight isn't here.

Instead, you're left to listen to the cheesy pop song spilling from the radio with your legs crossed against cream, leather seats and no other than a silent driver but to ensure you make your way to work promptly & safely.

You eye him in the rear view mirror for the umpteenth time, his thinning hair and dark shades that keep his gaze concealed from view. Seems difficult to drive in, but goes hand in hand with whatever stoic, FBI bullshit he seems to have going on.

He's a busy man, you remind yourself. You'll just have to discuss game plans with him once you reach the office, though it would have been nice to already have things in place before entering the building.

Would you have your own desk? Beside his? Does he have a private office? Of course he does, he owns the agency. What CEO doesn't have their own private office? You conjure up an image of the mighty Dynamight— bulging muscles and tarnished hero suit— exploding keys on a laptop and fight a smile.

What will his apology be like? You've seen enough media to know he's not exactly well versed in them, but you're almost definitely promised one with the lengths him and his team have gone to just to save face. You imagine his gruff, uninviting voice as you turn a corner toward the agency— "I'm sorry about your neighbourhood, or whatever."

No. That wouldn't do. He would have to grovel, "I'm so sorry yn. Let me make it up to you. Have my agency, take my hero suit! I'll do anything to make things right!" That's more like it. A stretch, but with his place in the ranks dropping dangerously low after the incident you gather he must be willing to do anything to keep his place in the public eye at this point. Which is your job, of course. So perhaps you could use a heartfelt apology as a little incentive to write up some good reviews about what a delight the pro-hero Dynamight is!

The driver says nothing as you pull up outside the building. You get out, smoothing your skirt and muttering a 'thank you' as you swing your purse over your shoulder once your heels hit the pavement. He's gone before you even register you've closed the door, sweeping up cherry blossom petals from the edge of the sidewalk as he speeds off.

You take a deep breath, taking in the size of the office in front of you. It's huge. Bigger than your new apartment complex, fitted with the same open floor plan and practically made of glass. You can see directly into each floor, at the people running around holding papers, staplers, taking phone calls, scrubbing carpets. It's all daunting to say the least, which is why you tighten your grip around the strap of your bag and force your chin up high.

You won't let this intimidate you.

Taking purposeful steps toward the sliding glass doors, you march inside and make your way toward the front desk. A young girl, probably early twenties, shoots you a look over her computer screen that reads as slightly irritated by your presence and it throws you a little off balance.

"Name?" She snaps, long nails sliding over the keyboard and you have no idea what she's typing in so soon.

"(Y/N) (L/N)." You cough, digging through your purse trying to retrieve the keycard the small man had graced you with the day before, "I'm Dynamight's new publicist." You explain, ready to hand out the ID badge when she stops typing to stare at you with parted lips.

"You're the new publicist?" She gawks, but something about the way her eyes run over your skirt and blouse makes you uneasy.

"I— yes, am I in the wrong place?" You fumble with the badge, placing it back in your bag, but she shakes her head, quickly returning to her stoic gum chewing as she rests back in her seat.

She taps away for a few moments longer before double clicking the mouse and something begins printing from a black box in front of her. "You'll be on level 5 today, though it might change as time goes on." Is all she says as she hands you a sticker, access to level 5 and a barcode smudged across the top in black ink.

"Right," You nod, staring at the sticker between your fingers, "What is it I'll be doing today?"

She furrows her brows, nails hovering above the keys, "You don't already know that?" You shake your head. "Nobody briefed you on the way here?" You shake again and she sighs like you've just purposely made her job harder.

She clicks a few more times, then points to an elevator at the hall across from you. "5th stop, door 5-B. Someone will be in there to explain everything you need to know."

You mutter a thank you and make your way over, pressing the arrow as you wait for it to make its way to your stop. There's a fan crew already building outside the glass doors, multiple young women desperate to catch a glimpse of Dynamight waltzing through the office on a Monday morning. You snort at the receptionist, who presses some kind of button that casts the glass in a visible tint, meaning it's impossible to see in from the outside. Boujie.

The elevator stops at each floor, various men and women in tailored suits and janitors uniforms piling in beside you, each level just as swarmed as the last. Until you make it to the 5th floor, where only you and another male— tall and red haired, dressed outstandingly casual— get off. It's quiet enough to hear a pin drop up here, away from the hustle and bustle of below and it's now you realise that this must be Dynamight's floor.

The red haired man turns to give you a polite smile, beckoning you out of the elevator first and you finally manage to put a name to the face. "Oh— thank you, Red Riot, sir." You bow far too low, and he cringes like he hates the formality, two hands against your shoulders in order to bring you upright.

"Please, don't bow." He shakes his head, leading you out of the elevator with a hand on your shoulder, "I'm just like any other guy here." His laugh is boyish and awkward, an almost familiar warmth to it that bleeds into the way his hand comes up to awkwardly rub across the nape of his neck.

You're hyper aware of his large hand across your shoulder, wordlessly guiding you through corridors. You furrow your brows, "Are we going to the same place?"

Something seems to register in him now, and he skids to a halt. "Wow, I am so sorry. I just assumed you were one of Bakugo's new hero trainees." He scans your formal attire like he's only just noticed, hand leaving your shoulder through the apology. "I now realise you're not a hero-in-training. Which way were you going?"

"Left, I think." You mumble, totally unsure. Hopefully he can direct you. He is a hero, after all. "Door 5-B? I'm Dynamight's new publicist."

His eyebrows raise at this, the same way the woman's at reception had. "Wow. You're the new publicist?"

You laugh— strained and nervous— "Everyone seems to keep saying that."

He darts forward, hands held up in front of him and flailing wildly. "No, no, no, it's not a bad thing! It's just—" He sighs, like he's about to say something he shouldn't. "Bakugo can be pretty. . . difficult when you don't know him. His last publicist didn't last a week." He laughs, letting go, then catches himself and shoots you a disconcerting smile to make up for it, "I'm sure you'll be fine, though. I hear his team specifically selected you based on your experience in the hero sector, so we're all expecting great things!"

Right. Not nerve-racking at all.

His red hair bobs over his shoulder at the sound of what must be a group of teenagers rushing the staircase to a small gym like room opposite. His class, you assume. The kind of U.A field trips that Dynamight must volunteer to host at the agency. Must be with some kind of metaphorical gun to his head, you're sure.

"Ah, I should get going." He breathes, weary eyes narrowing like he doesn't want to leave you so soon, but his body's already dragging itself toward the classroom. "Door 5-B is right down the hall, right across from 5-A." He directs with an arm while halfway down the hall and you try to study the large office he points to with a determined nod. "Good luck, publicist!" He bids, a little too sing-song for your liking, and it's then you realise he hadn't actually had the time to ask for your name. Probably since somebody as reckless as Dynamight wouldn't be able to keep this place above water without someone like Red Riot lending a helping hand behind the scenes.

You head toward your designated room with a passing thought about how swamped the poor guy must be, pitchy etched across your features as you smooth your attire and run a reaffirming hand over your hair. With a confident tip of your chin, you raise your knuckles for a very professional knock.

This is it. You're finally going to be face to face with the immature, time bomb of a hero that foolishly hasn't left your mind for longer than a second for the last 3 weeks. Except now he holds the title of your boss and you hate the smile you're forced to keep strapped to your face while you await him.

The door swings open. You blink, once, twice, three times. Not Dynamight. No mess of blonde hair, no ruby red eyes, none of that signature, shit-eating smirk you'd grown to hate over the time spent in rumination. Not even a hero suit. Just a plain, regular man in a plain, simple suit.

The light bounces off his glasses when he turns his nose up at you, bitter like he's already irritated just by your presence at his door and you've already anticipated the part of his lips before he speaks— "(Y/N) (L/N), Dynamight's publicist." You extend your hand.

He takes it, albeit with a begrudging curl of his lip, "You're late." He ushers you inside. You take a seat at the shiny table, gathering that this must be some kind of conference room by the furniture. The interior is almost totally black, save for the fresh, grey carpet and you can at least appreciate the sleekness of the design.

The urge to explain yourself soon dissipates when a stack of papers is thrown in front of you with no acknowledgment and you take a moment to study the bored look on his face before sifting through the documents. Files, all requiring Bakugo's signature. Charity events, donations, appearance requests from talk shows all the way to children's hospitals. You look up through your brows with a bitter scrunch of your nose, "What is this?"

"Your work for today."

You take another look over, flicking through the pages to make sure you're seeing this all right, "These are letters. Requiring Dynamight's signature." He nods, and you almost laugh. "So, what does this have to do with my role as his publicist?"

"Your job is to sort them into piles of which you think would be suitable for him to take on at this moment in time, those that would benefit him in the public eye. Sign those, give them to me by 4, then you're welcome to leave. Those that you don't," He drawls, long arm reaching under a single computer desk behind his legs to make a show of dragging a metal trash can in front of you and tapping the edge with two fingers, "go in here."

There's a brief moment of stunned silence before you're dropping the corner of the papers back against the desk and crossing your arms. "Isn't this the sort of thing he's supposed to tend to by himself? I can't forge his signature."

"It's not forging. These people know a top pro-hero like Dynamight doesn't have time to waste on sifting through fan mail."

"He's not a top hero." You blurt without thinking, lost in a spec of dust against the all black table top. Your own voice takes you out of your head and you can't help but feel that wasn't something you were permitted to say.

"What?"

You don't know why, but you double down, "He's not a top hero, and this isn't fan mail. He can't even answer real business inquires himself, which is why he's number 15 in the ranks and the reason you hired me to do damage control."

To your surprise, the man seems mildly amused. Walking by your side just to take an expensive, gold trimmed pen from his pocket and place against the papers in front of you as he makes his way to the door. He stops, one hand on the handle just to mutter, "You'll do well here." before the door is closed behind him and you're left to soak in the heated aftermath of your words.

You finish the papers by noon. It's tedious at first, but once you really got into your stride Bakugo's signature became muscle memory and you were able to skim read each letter at an efficient enough speed to be done within the hour.

You spend the rest of the afternoon grateful for the fact you still have a job after your little slip up that morning. You realise people here must not be very good with names, since that's the third person yet to ask for any title other than publicist or dare to offer their own. A brief snooping session takes up most of lunch— mostly pens, paper, a laptop logged in under a company name you're too afraid to attempt to break into and a shelf of various trophy's. A team photo with Dynamight at the centre, scowling through the sunlight that bounces off his gauntlets while various others around him, including the elder pro Best Jeanist, jump for joy. It's engraved at the bottom, the date of the day the Agency launched and project Dynamight became a go. If he weren't such a dick, it probably could've made you a little mushy.

After lunch, you spend an hour or two catching up on your latest read. A re-read, actually. A home comfort, one of the very few able to be saved from your bookshelf post-rubble and you'd thrown it in your bag this morning with no real expectation of opening it. Almost like a good luck charm, really. A remainder of the magic from where you grew up, able to be carried with you through this new journey and you'd never admit how it made you feel a little safer just to have with you for fear of sounding foolish.

When the clock strikes four, you waste no time retrieving your belongings. You search for the dark haired man that had briefed you this morning on your way out, hoping to apologise and offer any assistance if needed, but he's wrapped up in a conversation with another two males by the printer when you lock eyes so you only really get a nod in return.

The city streets are calmer at this time, the setting sun casting an orange glow between buildings that slips through the cracks in the pavement and warms the concrete beneath your heels. You declined a ride from the designated driver you'd been assigned under the pretence that you're still new to this part of the city and would enjoy to spend some time getting to know the joys of the area. He relented with no much more than a grunt, clearly unbothered by the fact you were only giving him one less job to do and was quick to speed off down the straight as soon as you shut the door.

For once, you trail winding alleys and quiet streets without fear, bag swinging loosely at your side without the need for a tight grip and your heels clicking against tarmac at a leisurely pace. It's peaceful enough to have thoughts of Bakugo and your shitty first day melting away and a new kind of excitement lighting in your stomach. The buildings don't disappear for miles— everywhere you look, each turn for hope of finding a cleaner sky, the road's still lined with sky scrapers with don't begin to dwindle until a sharp left takes you to what must be considered downtown here.

Shorter buildings, jazz bars and food trucks ease your mind here. Murals decorate almost every wall, each one a story more significant the last. An imagine of a young, fearless All Might makes you smile, his signature grin still incandescent through the paint on the walls. A few steps later and similar image, this one black and white with streaks of burning orange through the straps of his hero suit makes you stop. The words across the bottom are dry, soaked into the pores of the brick and you know this must be an old work just judging by the glow of youth in his cheeks. Dynamight, the one that was still side kicking for Best Jeanist long after the war. Beaten, bloody, yet still radiating confidence with that classic scowl of his, branded with the phrase 'SYMBOL OF VICTORY' beneath his torso.

You ignore how it burns, forcing your way further into the hum of the town, the heartbeat of community more apparent the further you walk and an assessing glance over the uniforms clinging to the backs of men sharing a beer informs you that this must be closer to working class than the strip of city your boss and other pro-heroes frequent. This is a real neighbourhood, a reflection of the one you lost to the hands of a so called hero. The one being commended on that wall, staring at you like he wants to taunt and yet this is the most at home you'd felt in weeks.

The pleasant smell of hot food drags you further down the narrow road, inhaling the warm spices with each new step and a smile on your lips. You make a point to explore each truck, scanning the menu and conversing with each new face behind aprons and hair-nets as you go. None pique your interest much, until a familiar smell has you inhaling with a content sigh, "Katsudon." You mutter to yourself, following the tip of your nose like a sniffer dog until your face to face with the absolute beauty that is the restaurant.

It's tiny. So small it's barely visible on the corner of the street if you weren't looking for it, but you've been doing this long enough to know that only makes it all the more special. A neon red open sign is all you need to push open the door, surprised to find a few chairs and tables beside the counter for those that decide to stay and eat. You scan the fridges, mouth watering at the thought of a crisp soda in this waning afternoon heat, but the smell of fried chicken only drags you closer to the counter.

A kind looking man— the old kind — skin pulled into sagging grooves around his neck, each sun spot a story that could stretch for years. He smiles at you, cheeks flush to his lash line and it's the sort that has you smiling back just as bright without realising. "What can I get for you?" He chirps, voice surprisingly steady despite his slow, shaking hands hovering the notepad in front of him.

You push up onto your tiptoes, arms folded atop the counter— "What do you recommend?"

His smile seems to grow impossibly wider at this, slits for eyes turning up to you; "You know what you're here for. You want the fried chicken." He hums, and you can't help but laugh.

"Yes, how did you know?" You watch as he scribbles something into the notepad, that endearing sort of chicken scrawl only old men possess.

He waves you off, hobbling to slide the note toward the chef— "I am very old." is all he says, before disappearing.

You're left, still smiling, to yourself against the counter. It's a rare pocket of calm. You briefly think this place might be magic, what with the strings of fairy lights and potted plants swinging from every corner of the ceiling. The fridges blink and buzz, the chime of the door sounds, you remain peacefully swaying beside the counter to the quiet music spilling from the crackly speakers.

"Oh—" a similarly sweet voice is making its way beside you, the shuffling of leather shoes against tile coming to an eventual stop. "I'm not used to seeing anybody else in here." A laugh, boyish and a little unsure.

You look up. Bushy, green hair catches your eyes first, followed by these wide, forest eyes that round at you like they've never been face to face with a real person before. Something peach coloured and jagged against his freckled skin has you raising you brows. A scar, a literal tear in the skin right below his eye, huge enough to stretch across almost his entire cheek.

"Sorry, it's just. . . I'm usually the only one here at this time." He speaks again, taking you out of your trance. One shoulder against the counter, fully facing you and the bright, yellow rucksack hanging from his fingers resting unknowingly against your knee. You curse yourself for staring, eyes darting to the light hairs that spout across his top lip as he smiles. He doesn't seem to mind, like he gets this a lot.

"Yeah, I—" you furiously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, turning back to face the counter. He doesn't look away. "I'm new. This is my first time coming here." It comes out more wobbly than you'd have liked, but he doesn't make any indication of it if he notices.

His grin widens, "What did you order?"

"Fried chicken." You mumble, suddenly a little ashamed. Should you have gotten something healthier? One scan of the muscle peaking beneath that blazer tells you he probably wouldn't order such—

"No way! Me too!" He laughs, "Well, I'm yet to place my order. But it is my usual, I swear."

"Is it any good?" You tilt up at him and for a moment something mildly flustered flashes across his face.

"Oh, yeah. Best in the city." He nods, looking down at his scarred fingers with a slight frown, "It's a shame not many people know about this place."

You hum, "Well, I know about it now. And if it's as good as you say, I'll be back here everyday for more."

He eyes you from the side of his face with a grin that borders on wild, you wonder if he's always this happy after a long day. "I'm sure I'll see you here, then."

"You come here everyday?"

He nods, taking two wooden forks from the pot and holding one out to you. You take it, wordlessly. "5pm, everyday. I pass this place on my way back from work." The old man from earlier pokes his head out from a swinging, red door. Him and the man beside you share some kind of secret smile and the man gives a small wave with his free hand next to you, then the man behind the counter is darting back inside the door and shouting towards the chefs.

"Wow," you blink, turning to face him and he meets your eye with a knowing grin, "You really do come here everyday."

He nods, almost proud.

"Where do you work?" You hope it's not a forward question, but you're desperate to know with the pin stripe suit he's wearing.

"U.A Highschool, a few blocks away."

"You work at U.A?" You gawk, "Isn't that like the most prestigious training school in the city?" You know it is. You're just double checking, like his confirmation would make it any more impressive.

He nods, this time less prideful and more thoughtful, "It's a blessing, really."

You don't ask any more, turning back to the counter, still running over the images of him training a bunch of heroes-to-be right before coming over to somewhere so. . . simple.

A bell rings, different from the one above the door. Pitchier, yet further away. The kitchen door swings open to reveal the same old man, carrying two take out boxes. He hands the first one to you, which you take, but study the green-haired man's reaction first just to be sure. He seems happy enough, taking the styrofoam between two beefy hands and thanking the man with a bow. He turns to shoot you a smile in the moment of silence, you return the favour but don't dare open up the box until you're out of the door. You don't realise the two of you are walking side by side until he opens the door for you and you have to make a conscious effort to duck under his huge arms on your way out.

Once back on the pavement, you allow yourself to get used to the hustle and bustle again. He seems to do the same, leaning back against the window as his eyes dance along the small children playing not far in front of the two of you. You join him, almost shoulder to shoulder and finally pry open your box.

The smell hits you instantly, nostrils flaring and mouth watering, "Oh my god, this smells incredible." You moan, pulling it closer to your face just to take a long, purposeful inhale.

He watches you with an amused chuckle, box still safely shut between his fingers, too busy soaking up your reaction. "I told you, best in the city."

You turn to him with a playful glare, waving your wooden fork in his face like a weapon, "I haven't tried it yet." He urges you with a hand, and you make a show of digging your fork into the crispy meat, bringing it to your lips and blowing gently. He looks a little pink cheeked at the action, but watches intently for you to wrap your lips around the wood and chew with a mock purpose anyway.

Your eyes widen slightly and he laughs, "What's the verdict?"

"Holy shit." You mumble in between chews, and his smile only grows. "You really weren't kidding."

"You think I'd lie?" He raises a brow, a little sarcastic, which already feels out of character despite hardly knowing him. It's a kind of teasing settles into his smile lines like it's not used to being there, one that makes you a little giddy in return. You don't know why.

"I'm not sure." You answer, honestly, tucking that same strand of hair behind your ear as you drop your gaze toward the toes of your pointed heels. You don't really feel grown up enough to wearing them anymore, like you'd unknowingly slipped out of your work persona and into the little girl you remember being before all of this even started.

His face drops a little, "You're not?" like you should know he wouldn't dare. Like he's sure of it. You think you believe him.

"Well, I don't even know your name yet."

"Izuku." He answers immediately, eyes sparkling. You're shocked he's given you his first name, fumbling over your words for a moment before sharing yours. You give him your first, too. It feels right. "That's pretty." He hums, finally flipping open the box between his fingers just to give himself something to do. It doesn't do much to hide the way his cheeks glow, but you don't say anything.

You snort, "I feel like that's the millionth time I've said it today." He shoots you a quizzical look through a mouthful of chicken and you continue, "First day at a new agency, lots of introductions." He nods, finishing his food.

"You don't seem happy about it."

You must've been frowning, you realise, quickly trying to school your expression before one look at his face has you giving up altogether and slumping back against the wall with a sigh, "It wasn't what I was expecting."

"How so?"

"My boss is a total dick." He laughs like he wasn't expecting you to say it.

"You didn't expect that?" He places his food against the window ledge in order to give you his full attention, indication you should continue. You decide you may as well let it out to this kind. . . stranger? Weird, you feel like you've already known him a lifetime, but he is. And plus, it's not like you've got anyone else to go home and complain to. Just a lonely apartment with Dynamight's name slapped on the front.

"No, I expected that." You laugh, the first real spout of joy to rack your chest in weeks. "It's just that— he kind of owes me for something." His brows furrow and you sigh, "I know, I know. New job at some big fancy agency, I'm being ungrateful." You roll your eyes, but there's no real distaste behind it, more like it's for yourself. "I just expected him to at least show up for my first day, maybe even an apology— if that's not too much to ask." You're looking away, studying the way the pink sky turns the pavement a kind of burnt orange. Orange. You curse yourself for even noticing. It hurls you into your next sentence, has you staring right into those emerald green eyes like they could strip the city of the colour entirely. "I mean, isn't it common practice for a celebrity to have a one on one with his publicist on her first day? He's not exactly helping to disprove the public consensus that he's a selfish, unfeeling asshole." You laugh, uncharacteristically bitter, "But of course, that's my job. I'm sure he'll have me wiping his ass by next week, that's if he even shows."

Izuku hums, low and thoughtful. You shoot him an assessing look, in fear of mockery, but come to find he's genuinely mulling over your words. It remains like this for a few seconds before he's sighing out the exhale of a particularly deep breath and turning to you with a weird amount of determination; "You shouldn't let others deter you. I assume this is a job you worked for, so why let someone else ruin this for you? You should remain determined, even when others try to put a dampener on your dreams." You must be wide eyed, because his cheeks glow upon finishing his ramble and he turns to face his bright red sneakers with an awkward laugh, "But you're right, he does sound like a bit of a selfish, unfeeling asshole."

You break into shared laughter, so much so you're practically shoulder to shoulder as you shake with giggles, but it isn't uncomfortable. Just a pleasant warmth that spreads through your skin at the contact, like his body's radiating its own heat despite the layers of clothing.

"Thank you, Izuku." You smile, bumping his shoulder, "You're a good teacher."

He rubs the back of his neck, "Oh, that doesn't really have a lot to do with my teaching skills."

"Of course it does. You taught me to never give up on my dreams, even when things are hard."

His teeth poke out a little, revealed by how his smile widens, "You're right. I guess I never really switch off, you know."

"Well, don't go changing now." You point a falsely threatening finger at him and he holds his hands up in mock surrender, "You don't know how much I needed that."

He chews his lip and you can see the cogs turning as he finds the words, "Can I— would you let me get your number? You know, in case you ever need my wise words again, friend to friend."

"I'd like that." Is all you say, handing him your phone.

tags (forgive me if i've forgotten any!): @hauntedbyink @tvkvi @fries-pls